my lord,” Becket said, and then he withdrew.
Alone, Charles Frederick Stuart put his head in his hands and wept. How could this have happened? The county of Worcester was a royalist enclave, a place of safety from Cromwell and his bloody Roundheads. Not any longer, obviously. And that fool, Billingsly, who had told him the Roundheads were headed in a different direction! Bess! His sweet Bess was dead and gone. He would never again hear her voice or lay with her in their bed. Never again would he caress her little round breasts that had always responded so well to their shared passion. Bess was dead. Taken from him in a war of rebellion that had seen his uncle murdered by the Parliament and his cousins in exile.
He had avoided taking sides in this civil strife even as his mother had advised, even as his brother, Henry Lindley, was doing. The royal Stuarts had always loved him and treated him with exceptional kindness from the moment of his birth. Still, for his family’s sake he had remained neutral. Now, however, he had no choice. Now he would take sides, for with his wife’s murder the Roundheads had forced his hand. So be it, Charlie thought grimly, but no matter how many of them he killed—and he would kill—it would not bring back his lovely young wife. Bess was gone from him forever.
He stood by her graveside the next day in an autumn rain, his three children by his side. His sister, however, had not yet been revived from her swoon, although she was showing signs of returning consciousness. Sabrina and Frederick were somber. Baby William did not understand what had happened. He would have no memories of Bess at all but those they gave him, the duke thought sadly. He took comfort in the fact that Bess was buried next to her great-grandparents, Adam de Marisco and Skye O’Malley. They would watch over her, he knew.
Autumn Leslie finally revived the morning after her sister-in-law’s burial. Charlie came and sat by her side, taking her small hand in his.
“Do you remember what happened, lass?” he asked her.
Autumn nodded; then she told him.
“Becket said the trooper was shot,” Charlie gently probed. “Did his captain execute him?”
“Nay,” Autumn told him. “I did.”
“You?” The duke was not certain whether he should believe her or not. It had been, after all, a terrible experience.
“I said I wanted him killed for murdering Smythe and Bess,” Autumn explained. “Sir Simon laughed at me, but he handed me his pistol and told me to go ahead and kill him. He didn’t think I would, Charlie. He thought me a silly girl, hysterical with what had happened; but I took his weapon and slew the monster who had killed Bess and Smythe! Sir Simon was very surprised. I told him to arrest me, but he said the trooper was cannon fodder and would have died sooner or later. He said he accepted the responsibility for his death, for it had been he who had foolishly given me his pistol. Then he took the body and left. It was then that Sabrina came and saw her mother lying there. Oh, Charlie! I hate this Commonwealth, these Roundheads, and pocky Cromwell. I hate them!”
He sighed deeply. “We buried Bess yesterday,” he said.
“How long have I been unconscious?” Autumn gasped.
“Three days,” her brother answered.
“My God!” She was stunned by his revelation.
“As soon as you are well enough to travel, Autumn, I will take you to Cadby. Perhaps Mother will be there by the time we arrive. Then I am taking the children to Glenkirk to Patrick, for safety’s sake.”
“Charlie! What do you mean to do?”
“Fight for my king,” her brother answered her. “I mean to join my cousin, King Charles II, in Scotland, little sister.”
She nodded, understanding completely. “You have been left with no other choice,” she said. “What of Queen’s Malvern?”
“I will close it up and leave but a skeleton staff to watch over it. I shall pay the servants for two years, and they shall all have their places when this is over, should they want them. They are safer without my presence than with it, now that the Roundheads have decided all Stuarts are the enemy. They will learn that they have made a bad mistake, making an enemy of me,” Charles Frederick Stuart said.
“Mama will not be happy with your decision,” Autumn said softly.
“I know,” Charlie answered, “but I cannot allow my wife’s death to go unavenged, nor can I now stand by as the monarchy is rent asunder by these traitors. Cromwell and his ilk are little better than the others, sister. My uncle was a good man but a bad king. Those who had his favor, and surrounded him, keeping him from the truth, were every bit as abusive of their power as the men who now claim to govern England. But these men have murdered God’s annointed king and persecuted our good Anglican church. I see now, as I did not see before, that they must be stopped!”
“I am in complete agreement with you, brother, but you know what Mama will say. Particularly now that our father is dead in defense of the Stuarts.”
“I will send a messenger to Cadby, saying that you are coming to be with Mama,” the duke said. “The rest of it I prefer to tell Henry and his family myself. It is not something one can write in a letter, although I must send a message to Bess’s parents in Dorset. Welk and his wife are now openly Puritans, but they are still Bess’s family.”
“Do not tell them what you intend to do with the children,” Autumn said. “They will want their daughter’s offspring, but they must not have them, Charlie. They must not be allowed to make Brie and Freddie and wee Willie into joyless, condemning psalm-singers.”
He nodded. “I shall tell them only the truth—that Bess was murdered by a Roundhead trooper in defense of one of her servants. It will be enough,” the duke said with a grim smile.
On the following day the duke sent one of his own servants off to Dorset to inform his in-laws of their daughter’s demise. The messenger was instructed to return at his leisure with the Earl of Welk’s response. Becket would then write to the Earl of Welk, explaining that his master and his children had departed Queen’s Malvern; that they would be traveling; and that the duke had not said when he would return. Charlie knew that when he explained his plan to his mother and brother Henry, they would understand and not betray either his whereabouts or that of the children to Johnathan Lightbody.
The day after the messenger had been dispatched to Dorset, the Duke of Lundy, his youngest sister, his children, and several servants departed Queen’s Malvern. Gazing back at the beautiful house with its ivy-covered and ancient brick walls, they all wondered if they would ever see it again. To protect their destination, the servants would not be dismissed until December, when they would be given their two-years’ stipend and the assurance of their places when the duke returned home to Queen’s Malvern one day.
“The east wing doesn’t look too bad,” Autumn said softly.
The duke stared at the blackened walls and smashed lead-paned windows. “The servants rescued most of the paintings,” he said bleakly. Then he turned his horse toward his brother’s estate, a twoday ride across the countryside.
Cadby, home to the Marquis of Westleigh, was a fine old brick house set above the banks of the river Avon, its green lawns running down to the water. Henry Lindley greeted his brother warmly and hugged his sister, exclaiming over her beauty effusively.
“We’ll have to find you a fine
